


pull me to pieces time and time again

by theshadowswhisper



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/F, bendy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshadowswhisper/pseuds/theshadowswhisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some disconnected Bendy drabbles and drabblets.  Ways it goes wrong, ways it does not go at all, ways it could have been, almost was, etc.  Slice of life kind of deal here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. curling around the edges

You watch her pull her long, dark hair into a ponytail. It’s such a simple action, deft white wrists flicking and twisting a bit of elastic round and round until she turns, and she is smiling. It’s simple, so simple—but you can’t tell the difference anymore. Everything she does looks that way—easy, like she pulled it from the pages of a manual and everything looks just the way it did in the pictures.

“Am I pretty, Bebe?” She’s young and so are you, and she doesn’t know the implication behind that kind of question yet. She just wants you to be honest, and you are, because you haven’t learned how to lie yet.

“So pretty, Wendy,” you smile and tuck you hands into your pockets, suddenly bashful. “I wish were I were pretty like you.”

She twirls and laughs, her open pink mouth round and her eyes tilted up. There is blue eye shadow smeared inexpertly on her face, thick and pasty and clumped in the crease of her eyelids. Her lipstick is garish—her mother’s from the seventies. And you stare at her and squeeze your hands together to keep from stroking a thumb along her cheek like the shiny page of a magazine, wishing.

“Twirl with me, Bebe!” She takes your hands, leaving powdery blue fingerprints over your palms and knuckles. You spin with her until force pulls you two apart. When you let go, she flies back, landing in a soft pile of cushions on the couch. She giggles as you thud to the ground, dazed and watching her.

You don’t stand, but let yourself flop down to stare at the webbed cracks on the ceiling. She joins you and doesn’t say a word. You can feel her breathing beside you as she scoots closer, tangling her fingers with yours again. Her eyes are on your face, and you grow flush. The red rises in your cheeks, and she draws it out with her gaze.

“Whatcha thinking about?” 

You are too small for all the words that try to jam themselves into your brain at once. The world spins more slowly above you, and Wendy tugs on you to make you answer her. 

“You’re my best friend.” It’s not really an answer, but it seems to satisfy her. She pokes your ribs, and goes, ‘duh!’ before snuggling deeper into your side. You don’t hold her, or even touch her, but you don’t need to. You are limb for limb, tangled so that you aren’t two separate people anymore. You are happy to let her cling to you, as she so rarely does, and let the moment go on and on.

\\\\\

The first time you burn yourself, you don’t really mean to do it. You’ve just finished showing Wendy how to use your curling iron. It’s something you don’t really need, but you own anyway. You don’t know why you wanted it, when you only ever lend it to Wendy. You show her how to singe her hair into a facsimile of your own, spray it for her so it’s thick and coarse and sticky.

She thanks you for this, wraps her arms around you and squeezes tight. You get a face full of her wiry, spray-scented curls; a few get stuck on your lip-gloss. You wipe them away, smile stiffly. 

“We’re like sisters now,” she grins, leaning her head against yours as she studies your images together in the mirror. She wears your clothes, your makeup. Your heels: they used to be your favorite, but you can’t remember when you didn’t think they were cheap, cheapening. 

“You’ll ruin your hair,” you chastise her. She pulls away like you’ve given her some very important advice, steps in closer to examine her glass reflection from a more intimate angle.

“Do you have any jewelry?” she wants to know. You go to fetch your grandmother’s music box filled with the hopeless tangle of necklaces you keep on receiving for your birthdays—maybe you can extract one she likes. You don’t really remember any one specifically, but you search for something. Something sparkly, or something blue maybe, like her eyes.

While you do this, she sprays herself with your most expensive perfumes. She can’t decide between lilacs or passion fruit, and so she just mists one of each on the insides of her wrists, and sprays a different one entirely (vanilla) onto her neck.

“How about this one?” You hold up half a heart, the jagged edge torn from some whole. It says ‘Best,’ but not best what, exactly.

“Oh god,” she grins, and reaches for it, “I forgot we had those.”

“Yeah,” you lift the lid of the music box again with your finger, the tinkling calliope music slow to start as you slide the box open. The dancer rises from a deep bow to twirl haltingly round, blank eyes on you as she does her turns.

“But if I wear yours, I’ll have both halves!” Wendy says, but she is already fastening the clasp.

“The whole heart,” you smile. The pendant lies against her chest; you wonder if it is cool on her skin, or if it is warm from sitting in your palm. 

“But it’s your heart, too!”

“Yes,” you say, “So you wear it.”

Stan rings the doorbell, and she squeals. She nearly trips in your heels, half-tumbling down the stairs. You’d catch her though. You get to catch her, like a child with an outstretched palm to catch stars and clutch them tighttighttight.

Later, you sit with the curling iron in hand. A few dark hairs are caught in the screws holding the clamp. You pluck them, idly, and you press your fingertip against the barrel. You feel heat in the metal and begin to shudder, convection diffusing a little more life into you. It feels good, not too hot. 

You want more heat. So you turn the curler back on, press it against the tenderest part of your arm, right above your wrist. You have to bite down on your tongue, and squeeze your eyes shut, imagining the smoking curling up from your skin. You’ve cauterized yourself; you weren’t even bleeding. 

You wear sleeves for a month to hide the scars, but they never really go away, so you just keep making new ones. You hold the hot iron to your flesh for longer and longer; sometimes you hold it until you almost have to scream. But you haven’t, so far.

\\\\\\\

During cheerleading practice, your wounds start to seep. Sweat irritates your injuries, filling them with salt and pus. It stings, but you keep smiling, even when your sweater catches, and pulls. 

On all fours, you watch Red climb to the top of the pyramid. She glows atop, but you burn below. The pyramid tumbles, breaking apart with chaotic precision. You roll to your feet, wave your arms, glittering pompoms over your head. The other girls can barely keep up with your frantic steps and desperate smile. 

You’re sure you are out of step with the music. You’re sure someone must notice the grimace, badly disguised as a grin. The peppy upbeat music rings in your ears—and later, you’ll still hear that buzz, a dial tone when no one’s home. 

You must look half-insane: empty expression, and flapping arms. But no one says anything. No one looks at you strangely, not even when you look down at your arms and the brown-yellow discharge from your injuries seeps through the white fabric of your sweater. 

“All right girls! Energy!” Red demands. She looks at you and you think, maybe she’ll comment, and that’s equal parts terrifying and relieving. You wonder if she’ll call you out in front of everyone; already you begin thinking of a lie. Your heart quickens.

But she doesn’t ask, doesn’t even look at your arms. “Bebe, you’re an eighth step off the pace. Pay attention, girlfriend.”

Pay attention. You want to laugh.

Red smiles to soften the statement, but it cuts you in a way she can’t imagine. She probably thinks her criticism is what makes your face fall. You’re drowning, head beneath the water. You guess you’re too deep now for anyone to hear you screaming. 

“…Bebe?”

“Yeah.” There’s water in your lungs, and you’re burning yourself alive. “I’ll keep up.”

\\\\\\\

Wendy notices, because of course she does. You’re sitting on her floor, pretending to do homework. She studies you instead of her notes.

"Are you okay?" She's asking a question she knows the answer to.


	2. look I never

When she dreams, it’s of softer things.

They are disconnected images, mostly. Handfuls of blonde curls. Gray-green eyes, pupils veined with something like gold. A mouth, moving over “o” shaped syllables, and a voice—always saying the same, unspecific things. The things don’t matter. The voice does.

She wakes up from those dreams bathed in shameful sweat. Blood pulses in her ears, loud as a liquid drumbeat. These dreams are the most dangerous; a cold sweat usually means she can fight back when she opens her eyes.

Wendy’s never been able to fight against this.

She gets out of bed, swinging her legs over the mattress. Some people have trouble getting up in the morning, she supposes, but Wendy never allows herself a conscious weakness. She stands up and adjusts her pink-cotton-flowered pajama pants around her hips. She pulls the tie from the bottom of her ratty sleep-braid as she approaches her bedroom mirror. Time to make appearances.

She loosens her braid with her fingers, and tries to remember the itinerary for the day. No time to idly daydream in front of the looking glass. Wendy regards her own serious face a moment, as if consulting. Even with her hair down, Wendy looks uptight. She needs a better disguise if she wants to get through the day without pulling unwanted attention. So she turns to her war-paints.

It’s makeup, but it makes her feel better not to say so, even in her head. Hypocrisy is a sign of feeble convictions. But Wendy’s little pots of glitter and powder are a compromise, and she knows it. Safety, she has learned, often comes at the price of convictions. This is likely why people can afford so few.

She dabs cold cream into her palms. At least you make smart compromises, Wendy, she reminds herself, when the expression of her critical reflection shames her. It’s just as bad to be stupid as it is to be frivolous.


	3. and once we said again

Bebe and Kenny walked together down the hall. It was Bebe’s favorite hall in the house. This was Wendy’s treasure hall. It housed her Harvard diploma. The walls were painted in Wendy’s favorite soft periwinkle. The glass artisan lamps Wendy had imported from Venice were lit at expertly spaced intervals, and the long woven carpet was thick and soft. Wendy’s life-sized Monet reproduction hung by the bedroom door. Water lilies, Wendy liked to say, if you could only see them in your peripherals. On the other side of the hall was a portrait. Wendy and Bebe wore spring dresses and held each other, laughing, their hair loose. 

Bebe loved this place in their house. Wendy had put so much meticulous detail into its design. The frames were all straight with their corners aligned with the floors and ceilings. The lighting had been designed professionally, so as to be bright and cool, but never obtrusive. And on a tiny, white shelf embedded into the wall, Wendy’s African orchids bloomed—shell-pink faces too perfect to belong outdoors or anywhere else. Wendy loved orchids, the never-dying flowers, most of all. They seemed frozen in time, to her. Rarely was life so still.

Kenny’s work boots left bits of dirt in the plush rug. He was tanned, from the high altitude labor he was doing on their roof; the contrast made his teeth look very white. An orange sweatshirt hung around his waist. His undershirt was stained yellow with sweat. And he smelled like a long day’s labor—like pitch, and like sawdust. 

Bebe liked the way the blue in the walls gentled Kenny’s sharp angles. She had the strangest urge to push him up against Wendy’s diploma and kiss the smirk off his mouth as he examined it. She wanted to give him the orchid to take home to his dirty trailer. She wondered if he liked the water lilies; absurdly, she hoped he did.

“This whole place,” Kenny gestured around with one large, grimy hand, “Looks just like her.”

Bebe simply nodded. “She imported the lamps,” she explained.

“The rest of it’s for you, obviously,” Kenny grinned, scratching the back of his head. Bebe was caught in wanting to run a hand through his hair, unsure whether it would be coarse or fine to touch. What he said was true. The rest of the house was done in swooping white arches and deep maroon paint. The mahogany floors set off iron curlicue furniture and gold silk pillows. Cream carpets, rich wood banisters—Wendy designed it all, with Bebe as a reference, like a painter taking cues from a particularly precious model. 

“For us,” Bebe corrected—an easy lie. Kenny didn’t believe her for a moment; he didn’t even pretend. He snorted, tilting a photograph black and white still of flowers in a vase, so it hung crookedly, against all the others. 

At the end, she will find the crooked photograph, and she will look at Bebe, penetratingly—as if she knows, and she will hold her breath for that question to follow. Her heart will pump shrapnel into her veins, and she will feel the cuts tearing her apart from the inside, and the look on Wendy’s face will say, “You deserve the pieces.” 

But the question will never follow. Bebe will right the picture-frame, next time.


	4. the beginnings unfolded, refolded

As she sat in the waiting room, Wendy thought life was all about deconstruction. Life was about taking apart what had been done before in search of meaning. It was about deducting wisdom from disassembly, reassembly. Maybe nothing in the world had ever been new. Maybe it was reshuffled parts again and again. Maybe there was nothing more to life than pieces of pieces. That’s how Wendy felt anyway, as she clung to Bebe’s hand.

Bebe shivered beside Wendy, her eyes unfocused even as she held the shiny pages of a magazine in front of her. Wendy kept tucking strands of hair behind Bebe’s ear. She cupped Bebe’s face in her hands and brushed her thumbs over Bebe’s warm cheeks. Bebe was so scared. Wendy could tell, because Bebe kept biting her lower lip. She had done so until the lip was chapped and swollen, bits of skin tearing off. Bebe didn’t even bother to cover it with gloss.

Wendy didn’t know what to say; Bebe trembled, and Wendy held her. It was strange that Bebe never asked for reassurance, Wendy thought. Most people would have. But maybe Wendy’s presence was indication enough of her support. Bebe played with Wendy’s fingers, and Wendy thought this might be the worst time in the world to take her hand away. So, she didn’t.

“Ms. Stevens; do you have an insurance card?” 

Bebe walked to the receptionist window, and Wendy followed her. As Bebe dug through her purse, Wendy kept a hand on Bebe’s elbow to steady her. In the yellow light reflected in the glass, Bebe’s reflection was pale. Wendy squeezed Bebe’s arm. They’d get through this together, and Wendy would try to find whatever pieces Bebe had lost. She’d find the important ones, anyway. Then, Wendy would make up a meaning for all this, so they could leave it comfortably in the past. She would tell it to Bebe until Bebe refolded her guilt into nicer shapes. All these things, Wendy promised. That was why Bebe brought her; Bebe needed Wendy to keep these most solemn silent promises.

Bebe signed her name on a clipboard and slid it back to the receptionist. Wendy worried a strand of Bebe’s hair. She twisted the soft, gold curl around her finger. She didn’t dare tell Bebe it was all going to be okay.

“Will you go in with me?” Bebe asked when they were told to go back to the sitting area wait for the doctor. 

“I don’t think they allow observers during the actual—”

“—Just when they’re doing the tests,” Bebe interrupted. Her hands were twisted together in lap. The fingers were bloodless, laced tight. “I just don’t want to be alone when they tell me what’s going t-to happen.”

“Of course,” Wendy gently rubbed the spot where Bebe’s shoulder blades were bunched together. “And I’ll wait here till they’re done. And stay the night at your place afterwards, if you want.”

Bebe spared her a tired smile. “Are you afraid to leave me alone?”

“No, Bebe,” Wendy lowered her head to meet Bebe’s eye. “I just know you. You’ll spiral into a cycle of self-blame if I’m not there to argue with you. Someone’s gotta reason with you.”

Bebe sighed. The air seemed to rattle her, gusting noisily as she blew out, “Do you think it will hurt?”

Wendy shook her head, not a beat behind. She tried to sound assured, or at least not as worried as she felt. “They do this kind of thing every day. It’s a routine procedure. You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t think,” Bebe choked a moment, “they’ll make me watch one of those videos, where—”

“Illegal in this state,” Wendy cut her off swiftly. “And if they try it, I swear, Beebs, I’ll kick those doctors’ asses.”

“I know you will.” Bebe’s smile widened by a few degrees. 

“Better believe,” Wendy murmured, smiling back. She reached over and lifted Bebe’s knuckles to her lips. “And if you ever have any doubts that I will, you can just ask the protestors who were here outside this morning.”

“What protestors?” 

Wendy lifted a single, finely arched brow. She held the expression for a moment, and then shrugged, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Bebe laughed quietly.

“God, you’re the best, Wends.” Bebe then turned back to the magazine in her lap. As she flipped through it, a whiff of perfume issued from the pages. “I don’t know what I would do, if you weren’t… You know. I couldn’t do it by myself.”

A dark look passed over Wendy’s face. Her next words were icy and deliberate. “You shouldn’t have to.” 

Bebe fiddled with the magazine cover and stared intensely downward. “He-he’s just busy is all. He would have been here.” Bebe’s brows came together on her forehead and she leaned forward, forearms resting on her knees. A tiny gold cross dangled around her neck and caught the light, glinting as it was suspended in front of her.

“Hah.” Wendy let out a derisive snort. “Busy doing what? Failing high school for the third time in a row? Has he even texted you back yet?”

Bebe surreptitiously checked her phone. “He will.” She stared at the device as if willing these words to be true. “I know he will.”

Wendy softened, her posture slackening. She said nothing. She just nodded once and set her jaw, her chin bobbing jerkily up and down. Bebe continued watching her phone’s screen for a few moments before repeating, “He’s busy. He’s just busy.” Wendy took her hand again, and squeezed it.

“Stevens,” a nurse cracked the door to the inner ward open. “The doctor can see you now.”

Wendy stood first, but Bebe tugged at her hand until Wendy faced her.

“Don’t leave me now,” Bebe begged, with panic in her voice, her large eyes beginning to fill with tears. “Wendy. Please, please d-don’t, I—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Wendy carefully helped Bebe to her feet. She spoke to Bebe in a soothing tone as she guided her through the door and down the small echoing halls. “I love you, Beebs. I’m right here.”

Bebe sat on the examination table. She shifted her weight, causing the paper beneath her to crinkle loudly. Her bare feet dangled over the edge, and a tiny ring around her fourth toe caught Wendy’s attention. It seemed incongruous somehow to her.

“Ms. Stevens,” the doctor came into the room, consulting his clipboard. Bebe shot a look to Wendy. Wendy immediately understood the anxiety in Bebe’s expression. She nodded to Bebe, to signal that she would take care of it.

“I’m Dr. Alder. We just have to go over a few things.” The doctor wrote something down on the chart in front of him. “Are you feeling any discomfort at this stage?”

“She’d prefer a female doctor.” Wendy met the doctor’s eye stonily. “Please.”

Bebe nodded eagerly, looking relieved that Wendy had intervened on her behalf. “Yes, please?” she added.

“Hmm. Who are you?” Dr. Alder asked. He gazed at Wendy over the thin rims of his glasses, still scribbling on his charts.

“I’m Wendy Testaburger. And Bebe Stevens wants a woman doctor. Now, please.” 

The doctor paused a moment. It was difficult for Wendy to read his expression, and when he spoke, it proved equally difficult to read his tone. He was extremely polite; Wendy couldn’t tell if he was being condescending.

“I do apologize. We are stretched extremely thin today, as we often are. We don’t really have staff to spare. I can send in a nurse to do standard tests of course, but I am the only one on hand to do the actual procedure.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Wendy crossed her arms and tossed her ponytail. “Are you deaf? I said she’s not comfortable. You must have someone female available to do the procedure. So we’ll wait if we have to, but—”

“It’s all right,” Bebe said, quietly. Wendy tried to catch Bebe’s eye, and see if she meant this. But Bebe was staring fixedly at her lap. 

“I don’t want to wait,” Bebe told Wendy, “I’m…barely brave enough to-to go through with this as it is. I just… It’ll be fine. I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Wendy looked like she was about to protest again, but Dr. Alder injected before Wendy could say anything more on the subject.

“Very well then,” the doctor spoke to Bebe this time, turning away from Wendy as if to exclude her from the conversation. “We have to do a pregnancy test, first. There’s a restroom in the hall. I’ll give you a sample cup, and you can go as soon as you are ready.”

Bebe was visibly upset by the idea, and would not take the cup when it was proffered to her. Wendy, once again, noticed the doctor’s seeming dismissal of Bebe’s misgivings and tried to intervene on her behalf.

“She already took a pregnancy test.” Wendy frowned at the doctor. “She wouldn’t be here if she weren’t pregnant, obviously. Can you just—”

“It’s standard procedure, Ms. Testaburger. And if you continue to make the process difficult, I will have to ask you to wait outside.”

“Try it,” Wendy challenged. Her voice held no humor. Bebe put a hand on Wendy’s arm to still her. 

“I’ll take the test if you want, Dr. Alder,” Bebe muttered, “Wendy’s just trying to help. I really would prefer a female doctor though; no offense or anything. So, if one becomes available, could you…maybe refer us…?”

Dr. Alder clicked his pen. “As you wish, Ms. Stevens. I’ll see what I can do. The nurse will be in in a few minutes to take blood samples, do a physical, and ask few questions about any current medications you may be on. If you would have the sample ready by the time the nurse comes in, it would be most appreciated.” 

“I’ll be all right,” Bebe said, as soon as the doctor left. Wendy wasn’t sure whom it was meant to reassure. She also wasn’t sure it helped on either front.

“I know,” Wendy told Bebe, but when Bebe got up to go to the bathroom with her sample cup, Wendy added, “…you have to be.”

Wendy waited. She’d brought her laptop with her; she knew that what she should be doing was her contracts homework. She’d taken three days off school to be with Bebe, and she wasn’t an idiot. She knew she was seriously behind. Wendy knew she should start the memorandum that would be due the next week in tortes. She knew she had so much reading to catch up on that she’d likely never manage. She knew her group had assigned her all the extra outlines (they always did). 

So, mostly out of guilt, she opened her laptop. The cursor blinked at her, and she blinked back at it. It was a losing battle from the start; Wendy stared at the cursor for a full minute before she realized there was no hope of anything productive to be had from the exchange. So she opened her textbook. She had at least five cases to read and make notes on—but try as she might, the words slid past her comprehension as she scanned her eyes over them. After five pages, Wendy could remember nothing of what she’d read. It was hopeless; Wendy was simply too distracted to focus.

Giving up, Wendy looked around the room. No one would meet her eye as she glanced about. The air-conditioning hummed noisily, but otherwise the room was still as a grave. …Perhaps that wasn’t the most apt metaphor, thought Wendy. After all, everyone in the room was alive, and that was exactly the problem. Wendy grimaced at this idea, finding it unsettling somehow. She shook herself, as if to be free of the thought all together. Then, she glanced agitatedly out the window at the parking lot. It was once again filling with protestors. “GOD LOVES ALL HIS CHILDREN” read a sign emblazoned with neon-bright letters. A woman in a shapeless polka dot dress held it in one hand, and a stack of fliers in the other. Wendy guessed it was likely tactless, poorly written propaganda, which relied on fear tactics to bully women out of making their own decisions. In that moment, Wendy wished nothing but bad things on the woman in the polka dot dress.

“Don’t you want to meet your baby?” read another sign. The woman waving it carried what appeared to be a baby doll, cradled in the crook of her arm. She rocked it gently, even as she accosted another woman making her way to the clinic through the parking lot. Wendy could just imagine what the sign-waver was saying. It made Wendy want to kick something over as she watched the accosted woman hesitate by the door. There was regret on the woman’s features already, eyes drifting down and head hanging low, weighed with shame. And Wendy knew before the woman had even turned away that she was never going to step through the door. The protestors gave an audible cheer from outside. Wendy flinched, and then scowled.

As the crowd in the parking lot began to sing a muffled version of “Amazing Grace” outside, Wendy was seized with the urge to reassure patrons of the waiting room. She wanted so much to declare that that this place was their right. She wanted to insist that they had nothing to apologize for. She wanted to say these things so badly it made her chest ache, but if Wendy Testaburger had learned anything over the years, it was that sometimes, she had to keep her mouth shut. Here, she sensed, was no place for idealistic sentiments, however true and apt they were. Some things could only be said outside of waiting rooms. 

Someone made a sound, and Wendy—who had been lost in her thoughts—nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked automatically to the door through which she knew Bebe would at some point emerge. It remained closed, an insurmountable barrier between she and Bebe. Was Bebe all right? Wendy worried; was she still scared? Would she blame Wendy for not being there, when they… Wendy would have insisted they let her stay, however uneasy the thought of it made her, if Bebe hadn’t told her not to. Wendy should have insisted anyway, she scolded herself. It was her fault if Bebe was in there, by herself and afraid.

Wendy felt a spike of intense resentment towards Stan at the tail end of that thought. They would have let him stay without any discussion. Stan, who wasn’t even here—didn’t care enough to be here—would’ve been allowed to stay by Bebe’s side. Meanwhile Wendy—who had blown off half a week of law school and a midterm to be here—was banished to the waiting room. It was just so fucking typical. 

Wendy picked up the same magazine Bebe had put down earlier, and opened it. She fumed, watching the pages without absorbing them. Instead, she thought about Stan. Stan was, in Wendy’s opinion, utterly undeserving. He was undeserving of his presence here, his absence only intensifying the undeniable influence he had. He was undeserving of Bebe’s unerring faith in his good intentions. He was undeserving of any of it, of Bebe herself, and Wendy crunched the pages of the magazine in her hands with the injustice of this. 

“Stupid bastard,” she growled to herself when she reached the end of the magazine. She hadn’t read a word of it, but it was wrinkled from the abuse it had suffered in her grip. She slammed it down on the side table by the sofa’s arm. The woman on the cover seemed unruffled. She smiled charmingly back up at Wendy, the caption across the photo-model’s midsection promising 6 Sex Tips That Will Drive Him Wild. This was the type of girl right for Stan, Wendy thought. Stan could have the beautiful, unworried girl on the cover of the magazine who advertised sex in the waiting room of an abortion clinic. This was the type of girl Stan deserved. 

In fact, he could have any girl in the world, for all Wendy cared, but he couldn’t have Bebe. He didn’t appreciate her. He wasn’t good enough for her. He didn’t care about her. He wasn’t—

Wendy had to think about something else. She pressed her index fingers against her temples and made small circles, warding off an imminent migraine. Anything was better than dwelling on her unproductive hatred of one Stanley Norman Marsh, so she opened her textbook again. She uncapped a highlighter and set herself to the task of intensely reading about jurisprudence. 

The debate about jurisprudence has always been a heated one, involving some of the most noted judicial figures of our day. 

The clock seemed inordinately loud. Wendy struggled to ignore it, hunching closer to the page.

Justice Scalia and his much-touted theory of Originalism—

Wendy guessed Bebe had been gone about twenty minutes now. How much longer would she be? Then again, Wendy reconsidered, she didn’t particularly want them to rush something like this.

But Posner’s pragmatism compiles two interesting analyses; one being judges as occasional legislators—

But would Bebe still think she’d done this for the best, when it was done? Wendy had made a convincing case, but would it hold? Would it stand up to whatever Bebe felt after she’d made her decision? Would she blame Wendy if she regretted it? And, most terrifying of all, if she did, would Stan somehow twist everything and make it Wendy’s fault? It had been Bebe’s decision, in the end! Wendy hadn’t forced her to—

—deducing intent is an impossibility. This is the main attack on traditional approaches, as Posner explains—

Wendy shook her head. Stan had ruined enough things. He would not ruin her GPA too, damnit! With renewed determination, she squared her shoulders, bent over her text, and with her highlighter in hand, Wendy cleared all else from her mind. 

—In the end, rationality may exist only in afterthought. We make decisions and justify them later with reason…

Bebe’s room seemed smaller than Wendy remembered it. The purple bedspread and furry throw pillows were the same ones that she remembered, but now they seemed meant for a child, rather than the adult Bebe had become. Bebe still had a tattered white stuffed bear sitting on her dresser. The Backstreet Boys poster from middle school was still on the wall complete with Bebe’s red lip-print next to Justin’s head. It was surreal, Wendy thought, how little it had changed, and yet how different it was from how she had remembered it.

The ride back to Bebe’s house had been a quiet one. (‘How are you feeling?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ ‘Not really.’ ‘But, are you okay?’ ‘I guess.’). Thus, Wendy was somewhat relieved to have reached their destination. Bebe was, she reasoned, likely just shell-shocked. A familiar environment would help her recuperate, Wendy decided. And then Bebe would realize she’d made the right decision. She’d thank Wendy, just as soon as she could breathe again.

But Wendy sat on Bebe’s bed, and Bebe sat on the floor, and neither one of them said a word. Bebe curled her arms around her knees, and sat curled in a tight ball there on the rug. Wendy didn’t know what to do. It was probably best to let Bebe talk first, but the silence was worse here even than it had been in the car. At least they’d had the radio to fill the air with white noise before. Now, the wordless space between them felt all consuming.

“Do you still want me to stay?” Wendy asked when she could stand it no longer. Bebe looked up, as if shaken from a trance.

“Yeah,” she said. To Wendy’s relief, she smiled. “Yeah, I think I do. It’ll be like we’re kids again.” 

Wendy’s chest felt as if it were caving in, a weight suddenly lifted from it. “Oh wow; you’re right. We haven’t had a sleep over since the seventh grade.”

Bebe hummed contemplatively, her gaze distant. Wendy assumed that was the end of the conversation, but after a few beats, Bebe broke the quiet spell again.

“Hey, remember that one time, in fifth grade, when you thought we could dye our hair with Koolaid?” Bebe pulled a face at the memory. Her posture loosened, somewhat, and Wendy took it as a good sign.

“Oh, yeah,” Wendy lay back on the mattress, covering her face with her hand, “it didn’t work on me, of course. But you ended up with green hair for a month. Your mom was soooo mad at us.”

Bebe unbent her knees and leaned back on her palms. She still seemed absent to Wendy somehow, but at least she was talking. “Shit, yeah. I was pissed, too. It was supposed to be blue—Ugh. And I was grounded for half a year afterward.”

Talking seemed to help distract Bebe from her pensive mood. So, Wendy tapped into her memory of the good old days, searching for a trigger-free recollection to keep the tone light. 

“To be fair, you were the one who was so sure it would be a good idea to pierce our own ears,” Wendy sat up again, and tucked her hair back. Then, she grinned as she pointed to the earring that decorated her left ear. 

“You still have it?” Bebe looked amazedly the tiny, silver stud. “Oh, dude. I thought you’d have let it grow in for sure; did you at least pierce the other one?”

Wendy swept her hair away from her other ear, to reveal the un-pierced lobe. “No way. No more needles. I’m still traumatized!”

Bebe joined Wendy then, sitting down beside her on the bed. “You screamed so loud when I did that. You’d think I was murdering you, instead of just poking you a little.” A ghost of another smile tugged at Bebe’s lips, and Wendy took it as an extremely good sign. Her plan to keep Bebe talking seemed to be working.

“A little!” Wendy scoffed, “You stabbed me through the ear! And if I recall, I wasn’t the only one screaming. And you were the one who was too scared to do my other ear!”

Bebe looked to the ceiling, rolling her eyes heavenwards. “…It bled a surprising amount, for such a small hole.”

They both chuckled at the memory. Bebe did appear marginally cheered, and this made Wendy happier in turn. The piercing incident had happened, Wendy realized, in this very room. They’d been sitting exactly where they were sitting now. She gave Bebe a sidelong gaze, and then flopped down onto the comforter again.

“Yeah well. I still have it because I’m too scared to take it out. It’s been nine years, and I’m still waiting to get tetanus.”

Bebe shoved Wendy’s shoulder a little. “Oh, fuck you,” she laughed softly. After a beat, she added, “You know, I really missed this.” Bebe lay on her side, facing Wendy. She leaned on her propped elbow. “And you. I never see you anymore. How’s law school, anyway? You’re not too homesick yet, are you?”

Wendy rolled over and turned towards Bebe. “Law school sucks,” she said with no humor. “I want to come home every day. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. It’s terrible in every way.”

Bebe tilted her head a bit. Her lips quirked a moment, and her brow furrowed. “Like how?”

Wendy exhaled, and she puffed a bitter laugh. “It’s just…really hard. And not just the schoolwork…we’re all competitive and stressed out of our minds. You have people you study with, people you drink with after mid terms, and people you borrow notes from—but no one’s actually close to anyone else.”

“That bad?” Bebe sounded so genuinely sympathetic that Wendy almost hugged her right then. No one talked to her that way anymore, with real and apparent concern for her wellbeing. Wendy couldn’t fathom how it had happened: she’d come to comfort Bebe, but things seemed to be happening the other way around, now.

“You have no idea. The other day, we were taking a test. And you know, there’s not a lot of time to finish, so anything breaking your focus is deadly. So, I dropped my pencil. And the girl in front of me could have easily picked it up and handed it to me. But instead, she kicked it further away!”

“What a bitch,” Bebe said. She looked indignant on Wendy’s behalf. Wendy took extreme pleasure in that alone. Bebe cared. The simple thing, to Wendy, was a good reason—the only good reason, in fact—to come home. 

“Yeah well. I kicked her ass on that test anyway,” Wendy confided with a smug smile. “So, I wasn’t too burnt out over it.”

“Good,” Bebe nodded, “I hope you put that slut in her place.” She reached over, and tugged gently on Wendy’s earring’d ear. “’Course you did, though.”

Wendy’s heart stuck in her throat. She caught Bebe’s hand, and held it against her face for a moment. When she breathed deeply, the faint spicy pine needle scent of this familiar room, combined with sweet smell of Bebe’s coconut shampoo made her especially nostalgic. They could be back in high school, when she closed her eyes. They could be here in Bebe’s room after school. Before law school mid terms, before Stan—when the most concerning thing either of them had ever dealt with was the scandal that had happened between Clyde Donovan and Token Black’s girlfriend of the time, Red. When it had just been the two of them. When it had seemed like it always would be.

“I’m never going back,” Wendy said, opening her eyes again. “I’ll just live here under your bed from now on. Fuck becoming a lawyer.”

“You gotta go back and do it, though,” Bebe insisted. She rolled over squirmed until she was flush against Wendy’s front side. “You’re too smart to come back to South Park, ultimately.”

Wendy snaked her arm around Bebe’s waist to hold her in the spooning position, and surreptitiously buried her nose in the soft nest of curls at the nape of Bebe’s neck. “I live here, though,” Wendy said quietly, “I’m in a dorm right now, but I live in South Park.”

Bebe took Wendy’s meaning without needing any further explanation. “I’m glad you do,” she confessed, and then repeated, “I missed you.” Wendy did not reply, only held Bebe a little bit closer. After a moment, Bebe yawned. “Can we take a nap now? M’getting sleepy.”

“Of course we can,” Wendy murmured, letting her eyes drift shut once more. “You’ve had a long day.”

After they rested a few moments, Wendy asked, “You’re alright though?” 

Bebe paused a long time. “I think I will be.”

 

Bebe elbowed Wendy hard in her sleep. Wendy made an ‘oof’ing sound, as Bebe’s sharp, boney joint drove into her stomach. It woke Wendy up immediately. When she opened her eyes, she was disoriented; she had no idea where she was. Evening had approached, and the room was steeped in shadows. The sky outside the window had faded to a cool blue. Wendy wasn’t sure what time it was. She’d felt tired enough to sleep for a week, but how long had it really been? It was for this reason that Wendy hated naps, she thought; they made it so hard to tell what day it was.

Wendy swallowed, and looked down at Bebe. In her sleep, Bebe’s brow was pinched. She twitched agitatedly. The gold cross she always wore on a long chain lay next to her face on the pillow. 

“N-no, ah, no!” Bebe cried out, limbs thrashing. “Don’t! Please! No…oh…”

Wendy gently gripped her shoulder and shook it. Bebe seemed to resist this, jerking away, her face scrunching with discomfort.

“Wake up, babe,” Wendy reached over and continued to jostle Bebe’s shoulder. “Shh, shh. It’s all right. You’re fine. Just a bad dream. Wake up, Beebs.”

Bebe’s eyes flew open. Her pupils were huge, chest heaving. “Wha—? Wendy? What…I was having…the worst dream…”

Wendy gathered Bebe into her arms. She could feel the other girl’s pulse racing as Bebe hid her face in Wendy’s neck. “It’s all right, now,” Wendy repeated, stroking Bebe’s back. “Nothing’s wrong. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

“I dreamed I went to hell,” Bebe rasped, clutching a handful of Wendy’s shirt, “There was a child, sitting on this porch. He was barefoot, just sitting there. He looked at me, right through me. He kept-kept looking at me. And I knew. I knew it was the child I-I—”

She began to cry. Her entire body trembled. Wendy felt her own throat begin to close.

“Don’t be silly,” Wendy ran her fingers through Bebe’s sleep-wild hair, “you’re not going to hell, Bebe. There’s no such thing. You’re just feeling guilty, that’s all, and it’s manifesting in your dreams.”

Bebe shook her head. For some reason, what Wendy said only seemed to make her cry harder. She was beyond words for a few moments, incoherent with sobs.

“It hurt, Wendy, it hurt when they did it,” Bebe rocked forward, her voice sounding tortured, “the-the doctor was so fast. It was h-heartless. I can-can still feel—”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Bebe,” Wendy pulled away a bit to soothe the crease between Bebe’s brows with her thumb. She ducked her head and looked deep into Bebe’s eyes. “Remember? We talked about this. You did what was best. For yourself, Bebe. Nothing else matters. You shouldn’t have to throw your life away over a stupid mistake. You don’t owe anyone, or any God for that matter, that. No one can ask that of you, Bebe.” 

Tears spilled down Bebe’s cheeks. “The boy in the dream told me to look at my h-hands. They were covered in blood. His blood; he was bleeding, bleeding everywhere. Then...then the floor opened up, and I was falling. I was falling straight to hell.”

“Listen to me,” Wendy held Bebe’s shoulders. Her voice broke, determined and harsh, “God can’t be mad at you for choosing your own life over someone else’s. Don’t let some old man in the Vatican dictate your happiness! What do a bunch of 80 year old males a thousand miles away know about what it’s like to be an unmarried pregnant woman in South Park? It’s ridiculous to let them make you feel guilty! You have nothing to feel guilty about!”

“I know, I know,” Bebe sounded so tired, like she was a thousand years old. She rested her head on Wendy’s shoulder, breathing finally slowing. “It’s just…” she trailed off, lapsing into silence.

“Just what?” Wendy asked nudged her softly.

“The-the doctor said there would be some bleeding, for a few days,” Bebe swallowed thickly. “And…and that there would be some sc-scarring, inside.”

“Nothing dangerous though, right?” Wendy asked, her body growing cold.

“No, nothing like that,” Bebe assured her. “It’s just. If…if I get pregnant again one day, when I’m ready to be a mother…and there are still scars…”

“You’ll still be able to get pregnant later if you want to,” Wendy tried to assuage Bebe’s fears, “lots of women who have the procedure done go on to give normal, healthy births later.”

“It’s not that,” Bebe said, her voice hoarse, “it’s just, when my baby someday…sees the scars, inside my womb…” Wendy felt fresh tears dot her t-shirt, “I’m…I’m just afraid, the baby will see the scars, and…and be…” Bebe took a shuddering breath. “Afraid of me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Wendy said, but her voice was unsteady, and she had to whisper the words.


	5. mirror, kaleidoscope

You realize on a Thursday, you don’t really know Wendy at all.

She stands there behind a mike in a coffee shop, gripping the mike-stand with two tiny white hands, and she’s got rings on every finger. Her fingernails are painted black, chipped. Pink beret is askew over dark hair that goes all the way down to her waist, and she’s wearing a skirt that brushes her ankles. The little light they shine over her, a piercing white beam in the dark, make her look pale, make the black, sharp brows on her face look blacker and sharper. You stare at her, a mochaccino with soy dripping condensation between your own manicured fingers: red, a little gold heart embedded in the polish. 

Wendy clears her throat, and you watch her look stage left. When you follow her gaze there is no one on the end of it; where is she getting her reassurance then? She must’ve found it, even if no one was there to offer it, because a second later she starts talking.

“Some people are monsters, and they break themselves open.”

You guess she’s talking about herself, because her voice shakes. You’ve heard her—they’ve all heard her—talking about “other things.” Children suffering in third world countries, refugees with nowhere to go, animals subjected to the kind of torture your subconscious rejects as impossible. Wendy talks about those things with no small amount of strength, and you know it’s because someone has to be strong enough to care about those things.

Her voice is weak when she talks about herself, and that is how you find her out. 

“Each bone is a match to a lock somewhere, and when we pick apart the remains the doors will open.”

Those words mean nothing to you. They mean something to her, though. And the crowd is not moved by her prose, but rather by how she is moved—visibly. Her voice is movement, veracity and intensity (that is unsurprising) but subtlety, also—breaking and wavering like the words mean too much, will break apart if she says them too loudly. You’ve seen Wendy fight people twice her size over Breast Cancer Awareness. You’ve seen her scream in the faces of adults like volume will make them less ignorant. So when you see that, yes, she’s not indestructible, and all it takes is a couple words, you’re surprised. You don’t know why. That’s all it takes for most people.

“I’m the key—to a place where all the bruises heal. I’ve swallowed the key. I’m a body inside a body.”

You want to study animals that live underwater someday: ecosystems and chemical transformation of energy into life. Wendy’s words remind you of kelp farms, and warm, shallow water where life stirs in surprising ways. A thousand tiny worlds contained in a tiny ecosystem, a delicate balance, a warm place where you might wade ankle deep. You think there are worlds to be discovered in her poetry. Little worlds you never dreamed existed, and you wonder why they suddenly matter now.

You catch up to her afterwards, and smile. She looks at you warily, willing to be open to everyone at once, but not you alone. 

“Hey,” you say. “I liked your, um.”

“Thanks,” she fiddles with the end of her scarf.


End file.
